The Return
by ChucklesTheClown
Summary: When they turned Simjanes over to his mortal enemy, they thought he would never return. They were dead wrong.
1. Default Chapter

**PROLOGUE**  
  
Pain, at least the greatest pain, is a commodity of allies, not enemies. The power of betrayal resides forever beyond the reach of our greatest foes, and yet sits in the lap of our closest friends: locked, loaded and deadly accurate. It can walk into an impenetrable fortress, or dump the invincible at his enemy's feet without a fight. But users beware: betrayal is a single-shot weapon that cannot be reloaded. When it fails, it fails to the ruin of the traitor. In order to betray, days, weeks and years of trust and friendship must be turned into a deadly poison that mocks as it kills. And if it kills, well and good.  
  
And if it does not . . .  
  
**THE RETURN (part 1 of 3)**  
  
He had thought the idea rash from the beginning, but somehow the rest of the team saw it as genius. Pile red team's remaining six players in two hogs for a massive assault on blue? To Simjanes, who regarded subtlety as his greatest weapon, this plan seemed loud and messy. The vote, however, was five to one on a team loaded with captains, so he would go along with it. This was his team, and these were his friends. Had the decision been to assault the gates of Hell, he would've ridden shotgun.  
  
They checked their weapons as they rounded the bend towards the enemy. Gunning the engine, the driver stayed to the right of the small hill that divided the canyon floor, and slammed the warthog to a stop directly in front of the base: out of sight of either entrance. Hogg was driving, and he would not make the noob mistake of stopping in front of a doorway. The other hog stopped beside them, and red team leapt out of the vehicles. Simjanes rounded the doorway, saw Chuckles, lifted his pistol-and was thrown to the ground from behind.  
  
A foot slammed against his back, holding him firmly down as a shotgun was pressed against his head. "Grab his weapons!" Simjanes heard his fellow red team captain Turpertrator bark. "And don't forget the grenades." Strong arms lifted him, and Ydnar bound his hands behind his back. Too shocked to comprehend what was happening, Simjanes remained silent. The two teams stood facing each other, weapons in full view. Chuckles and Lexicus stood across from him, smiling beneath their helmets. Behind blue's two captains stood the newer members, some of which had only _heard _of Simjanes and his deadly skills. Lexicus broke the silence.  
  
"Bring him forward." Turper shook his head and pointed to the back of the base.  
  
"The flag first. And remember our agreement: you can't kill him. I don't care what you do to him, but no execution." The terms of betrayal woke the betrayed from his shock.  
  
"You're a real hero, Turp" Simjanes said in a voice colder than space. "You got my six, huh, right? Cut me a real _deal_ with these guys, did you? Don't worry, I'm sure Chuckles will make sure I don't get hurt, seeing as I put his brother in the grave and all. I think he'll treat me square, don't you, buddy?" Turper was silent. Stepping forward, Hogg put his hand on Simjanes shoulder.  
  
"It's not like that Sim, we—"  
  
"Don't touch me" Simjanes spoke with quiet force, jerking his shoulder away. "Give me to Lex and Chuck; I know where I stand with them. I prefer them."  
  
"You heard him," the Clown said with mock emotion. "Give'em the flag, Freedomman, and I'll show the gentleman to his accommodations. After all," he spoke staring at red team, "he prefers us."  
  
The traitors left silently as Chuckles and Lex carried Simjanes to a room in the rear of the base. Simjanes had never been in this position before: a position of weakness. He lived or died by his own skill, come what may. His friends, his _team_ had taken that all away from him. He was now at the mercy of Chuckles, and if that wasn't playing Russian roulette with a fresh clip, it was as close as it gets.  
  
"I'm good to my word, Simjanes" the Clown said as they put him down on a chair. "I won't kill you. I am only going to send you away; so far away that you will never return. Well, you might return, but my guess is that you'd burn up on re-entry. Pity." Then for the first time he spoke in a voice that was nearly sincere. "I was against this deal, did you know that? I always wanted to be the one who fragged you. A warrior ought to die on the battlefield." The Clown's head lowered a little as he added quietly, "Bojo did. Oh well, life stinks, eh?" The last thing Simjanes saw at blue base was Chuckles' fist slamming into his helmet.  
  
Roaring, shaking, lifting, heat. Simjanes awoke. He was still in his MJOLNIR armor, his hands and feet unbound. It took him only seconds to realize that he was in the payload bay of a small rocket. There was room for him and little else, but he was able to move his hands and feet. _The Clown was kinder than I thought_. This particular model, he remembered with hope, could be steered from the inside. Opening the panel, he found that the mechanism had been removed. In it's place he found a little toy clown with a small note that read, "A memento". Across it's little shirt was written "Bojo", the name of Chuckles' brother: the one Simjanes had killed. He absentmindedly stuffed the toy into his pocket. Only one choice now: bust his way out and hope for the best. If he left the earth's atmosphere, there was no hope.  
  
He kicked at the side of the rocket with all his strength. Nothing. He continued to kick desperately over and over as the rocket climbed dangerously high. Finally, a crack appeared, and an instant later the craft completely disintegrated. His shields flashed and disappeared as extreme heat flowed over him like invisible lava. Flying unprotected through the boiling atmosphere, betrayed by his friends and abused by his enemies, he received the only mercy afforded him that day: he blacked out.  
  
**To be continued**  
  
C.T. Clown 


	2. The Return chapter 2 of 3

**THE RETURN (part 2 of 3)**  
  
Another corpse before sunrise meant another ruined breakfast. Turpertrator was tired of wasting food, tired of waiting 'til lunch to eat, and a bit disturbed at losing yet another man. To boot, it was a breach in the rules of engagement: no killing before sunrise. _Crap_.  
  
Turp and Ydnar were on the ground level of their base, standing over the body of Rhinox. He was found on the other side of the first warp; the same place the body of his brother Xraf had been found the day before. Both had been killed with a shotgun at point blank range, and neither had discharged his weapon. This was strange, to say the least, but they would chew on the details later. First things first: blue team was going to pay.

"Ydnar, you take Darkboones and head through the tunnel. I'll take Firefly and go through warps, and have Hogg meet us on their side with a warthog." He checked his watch. "It's an hour before dawn. Let's show them how red plays in the dark. Ydnar, don't attack until—"  
  
BOOM!  
  
The blast was so close that they could hear the body hit the floor. It had come from the upper level, so it had to be Hogg. Turp and Ydnar scrambled past their stunned teammates and up the ladder. They found the room empty, but a smear of blood led across the floor and into the warp. Ydnar, Hogg's best friend, rushed to follow the trail but bounced off--the warp was blocked from the other side, and he knew by what.  
  
Ydnar leapt to his feet and then, for a long moment stared into the darkness. To those watching it seemed that one questioned and one answered. None ventured to ask him then, and none saw him later, so none knew what transpired between him and the darkness, but when Ydnar finally spoke, it was in a voice they barely recognized. "I'm going on foot to flush him out. Boones, stay here and cover that ledge with your sniper rifle. Turp, you get up by the tunnel transition and wait for him to run. Either way he goes, you should be able to get him." He spoke as if they were retrieving a stray dog, or hunting a deer, instead of saving a dear friend. But the plan was good, and within minutes they were in place.  
  
Turp lay on his belly near the ledge at the top of the tunnel, facing the ledge by the warp. Using his night vision he could see in the dark clearly, but Ydnar was nowhere in sight. Five minutes passed. Then ten. "Darkboones, do you see Ydnar anywhere?" Silence. "Boony, are you there?" No answer. He adjusted his position to see the top of the base, and his breath came up short. Darkboones lay motionless. "Ydnar? You there? Yd?" More silence. "Firefly?" Nothing. Like Ydnar minutes before, he lay speaking only to darkness, and not liking the answer.  
  
Confused and as close to panic as he had ever been, he stood up and turned-- and found himself face to face with another Spartan. Surprise was followed by recognition. "_Simjanes_?" Turp spoke weakly, "You're alive?" The question hung in the predawn silence like a waiting verdict. The answer was chillingly unsure.  
  
"I'm _back_." Then Turp spoke again, his voice thin and pleading.  
  
"Are you . . . on the other team?" Simjanes answered, his words dripping with bitterness.  
  
"No team, no friends, no allies," he cocked his shotgun, "just enemies."  
  
Simjanes brought his shotgun up and fired, but Turper sidestepped and swung his rifle like a bat into Simjanes chest, knocking him backward. Dropping the weapon, he grabbed for his pistol--and it wasn't there. In the hurry to save Hogg, he had left his pistol at the base. He dove at Simjane's knees, just as a shotgun blast to his back dropped his shields completely.  
  
But Simjanes jumped. Turper found himself facedown with a foot on his back and shotgun to his head. "Anything about this seem familiar to you, buddy?" Simjanes spoke in a cold, humorless voice. "Of course, I won't make the mistake you did."  
  
"Simjanes," Turper pleaded, "I know what happened was bad, real bad. But we can start over. If I could, I'd change what happened. But I can't. What we can do is start over with you and me. We've worked together for years. We were friends. I know you"  
  
Simjanes cut him short. "You know me? Yeah. You betrayed me to my mortal enemy without making sure I was dead, so I'd say—"  
  
BOOM!  
  
"—you didn't know me at all." But Turper was no longer listening.  
  
Dawn was minutes away, and somebody on blue team was sure to have heard those shots. He melted back into the twilight, behind a rock, beside the tunnel. Sure enough, someone did. Simjanes heard soft footfalls and then cautiously, a blue team member came out of the tunnel transition. It was Chuckles.  
  
Simjanes took the toy clown that was more than a toy, held it in his hands a moment, and then put it back in his pocket. Slowly, he began walking over to Chuckles. The Clown was kneeling over Turpertator and facing the other way, so he didn't see him approach. Simjanes carefully placed the shotgun behind his head, and began to pull the trigger.  
  
**To Be Continued**  
  
C.T. Clown


	3. The Return chapter 3 of 3

_Bad dreams are mere thoughts, ineffectual, fantastic and benign: real nightmares, the devils, demons and shadows that measure us only for good sport and burial, they are for the waking_**_.  
_  
THE RETURN (part 3 of 3)**  
  
Carrying a corpse is like hauling an awkward, long, heavy sandbag: if that bag is a friend, it can be a lot heavier. The earth doesn't know it; the ground doesn't sink further, and the rocks don't give way. It can only be weighed in the hearts of the bearers. Lexicus watched as two of his Spartans entered blue base--carrying the weight of the world. No hurry, no surgery, no emergency, no chance. Slowly, they put the fallen soldier on a table in the rear of the base. What was left of the helmet was removed, and a single sightless eye fixed on the blue team captain. Lex nodded, bent down and whispered into the deaf ear, "Get ready, he'll join you soon."  
  
After carefully closing the eye, he looked up at KrustyKlown. "What happened?"  
  
The deadly young Spartan gathered himself, though Lex could see he was still shaking. "Chuckles grabbed me and Freedomman after we heard the shotgun blast, up somewhere near the transition. We had just gotten to the top of our side of the tunnel, when we heard another shot. Me and Freedomman slowed, but Chuckles just went faster. When Free and I emerged from the tunnel we saw Chuckles kneeling over Turpertrator's body just a few feet to the left. Someone was directly behind him with a shotgun aimed at the back of his head."  
  
"Someone?" Lexicus asked, impatiently. "Any idea who?"  
  
"I thought it was Simjanes, but it couldn't have been: we all watched that rocket blow. But that was who it looked like. _My God_, that is who it looked like! We yelled a warning to Chuckles, but before either of us got a shot off . . . he was so quick, too quick." He stopped a moment and then continued, "Before we had a chance, Simjanes, or whoever, raised the shotgun and blasted Freedomman in the head. Free flew backwards and knocked me to the ground. When I got up, only Turper's body was still there. Chuckles was gone, and I couldn't raise him on the COM."  
  
The blue captain hung his head. "Yes, it was Simjanes."  
  
"You really think it was _him_?" Krusty said. Fear lived in his voice. "That rocket exploded. We all saw it. Nobody, not you, not Chuckles, not Simjanes could have survived that. Nobody."  
  
"But it is Simjanes" Lexicus replied flatly. "Chuckles left the body of a fallen teammate, turned off his COM and vanished. He doesn't want our help and he doesn't want us to know where he is. It's Simjanes, and he wants him all to himself."

* * *

The shotgun blast had rattled Chuckles' skull like a depth charge. He spun, fired, missed and saw his enemy disappear over the ledge. _His_ enemy. It happened so fast that he never questioned that he saw who he saw. And since it was who it was, Chuck wasn't about to follow blindly over the cliff. Leaping to his feet, he ran into the tunnel leading down to red base. _Sorry Krusty and goodbye Free; I've got unfinished business with this ghost. _Chuckles found the enemy base empty, save for the bodies. Stepping over Darkboones' corpse, he entered the warp. He emerged, looked, and could barely repress a cruel chuckle. Standing not five feet away, facing the opposite direction and aiming at God-knows-what with his sniper rifle, was Simjanes. Quietly he crept up behind him, raised his shotgun and slowly squeezed the trigger.  
  
Life is a gamble. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, sometimes you break-even. Bottom line: you play the hand you are dealt. Sometimes, however, the cards are marked, the game is fixed, and your mom is the one who fixed it. Sometimes you are dealt the perfect hand. Chuckles was staring at five aces and pot full of money: naturally, he bet it all . . _.  
  
CLICK!_  
  
. . . and lost his shirt. Misfire.  
  
Simjanes spun around with his sniper rifle, but the Clown caught the barrel with both hands, yanked it away from his enemy, and tossed it over the cliff. He moved away slowly, his back to the rock wall, Simjanes' back to the cliff's edge.  
  
Rising behind the canyon, the crimson sun reflected off the high clouds, painting the sky with blood; casting them in shadow. Warthog engines sat silent and cold, the air was still, and the birds refused to sing. More than a year had passed since Simjanes had put a sniper round through Bojo's skull, but Chuckles' anger was still fresh, his love for his fallen brother still strong. After all this time, it had come to this. Here it would finally end.  
  
Their pistols hung at their sides, but this wasn't the old west, and they were not gunslingers. They could both absorb two shots in the head without taking any damage. No sudden move, lightning draw, or super weapon was going to kill quickly right now. When the fight began, it would be brutal.  
  
Moving slowly, Simjanes reached into his pocket and grabbed the toy clown that Chuckles had left in the rocket. Written on it's little shirt in bright red letters was "Bojo". He held it up like a model advertising a product.  
  
"Quite a toy you have here, Chuck. A gift of mercy, am I right?" He unscrewed the head, and looked into the top of it. "Well, am I? You thought of poor Simjanes floating through space just waiting die a slow, horrible death, and you just couldn't handle it, could you? So you put this little clown toy/flask in there, and filled it with poison for me. I gotta tell you, I was touched. And it was fitting too, because that little brother of yours was _pure _poison.  
  
"Yes, he was" the Clown replied, knowing that Simjanes was actually complimenting Bojo.  
  
"Well, that sealed it for me: I had to come back. What, with you caring so much about me and easing my pain, I felt obliged to come back and help ease yours. So I've returned to end your grief, to reunite you and your brother. I can't very well bring him to you, can I?" Simjanes was twisting the knife.  
  
"No, you can't" Chuckles clenched his fist.  
  
"Of course not. What I _can_ do is bring you to him, and of course we all know where he is."  
  
"You put him there" the Clown replied in more of a whisper than a voice.  
  
Simjanes laughed as he replied, "Hey, even worms have got to eat."  
  
If the Clown had a weak spot, it was the death of his brother. Simjanes had found it and kicked at the wound until it was gaping and bloody. He had, however, kicked it one too many times. Chuckles rushed forward in a blur of speed, grabbed his shotgun off the ground, and swung a blow to his enemy's head so hard that the gun shattered. As Simjanes stood stunned, swaying like a tree, the Clown dealt a wicked kick to his stomach, nearly sending him over the ledge. "Nah, falling would be too easy, c'mon!" Chuckles grabbed his enemy's leg, spun him like he was throwing a hammer in the Olympics, and sent him flying into the wall. Nearly senseless with pain, and one blow away from death, Simjanes primed a grenade, and tossed it deftly between Chuckles and the edge of the cliff_.  
  
Bingo!_  
  
As planned, the Clown had no choice: he had to run away from the grenade, and toward Simjanes, who pulled his pistol and fired at the Clown's head. Shields dropped to half, dropped to nothing . . .  
  
BOOM!  
  
The blast hurled both of them into the rock wall. Simjanes was shielded from the grenade by the Clown, so he suffered only minor damage. Chuckles, having borne the brunt of the blast was hurt extensively. His right arm was twisted grotesquely behind his back. His left leg was barely connected below the knee, and his right leg had shattered like glass. The breaks, combined with the incredible pressure exerted by the MJOLNIR suit, created pain that would have killed anybody but a Spartan.  
  
Simjanes pushed the Clown off of him, and stood to his feet. He removed Chuckles' helmet, and winced. His enemy's face told a story of unimaginable agony. Kneeling down he took out the little clown flask/toy, unscrewed the head, and looked into the eyes of his fallen enemy. "There, there: I've got just the thing for that pain."**

* * *

EPILOGUE**

* * *

**_THE FOLLOWING IS WHAT REMAINS OF A NEWS STORY THAT WAS NEVER PUBLISHED. ONI DEEMED IT A RISK TO GLOBAL SECURITY. ONLY FRAGMENTS OF THE ORIGINAL STORY HAVE BEEN RECOVERED_**  
  
First built in the late 21st century, space elevators have enjoyed a safety record unparalleled by any other form of transportation. For a system that includes a gigantic cable reaching into space that is counterbalanced by a captured asteroid, this is remarkable. Though they are by far the largest man-made structures, mystery surrounds them. The massive cables are made of material known only to those at the highest levels of security clearance . . .  
  
As of this time, not a single death or serious injury has been attributed to their use. But this may be due more to government ownership and cover up than . . .  
  
. . . may have been as many as ten that died that day. Eyewitness accounts were stifled, and all involved apparently died from injuries. "No comment", the mantra of government obfuscation was heard . . .  
  
". . . we began to sway, and then this _thing _fell through the roof of the elevator. It looked like a huge man in a suit that was shiny, and sparkling. The heat was horrible, and this poor man was too close and . . . I am sure something struck the cable . . . It stood up, and it must have been over seven feet tall . . ."  
  
C.T. Clown 


End file.
